


Victims of the night

by tinsnip



Series: Every lyric tells a story [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Conversation, Gen, above all!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 08:26:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: Garak grabs his wrist. Hard.“Don’t look back. Keep your eyes on me.”He’s going to have a bruise. He tries to tug away, can’t budge. “Garak! Let me go—”“Trust me anddon’t look back.”





	Victims of the night

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Victims of the night - Ночные жертвы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16785367) by [Altra_Realta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altra_Realta/pseuds/Altra_Realta)



> From a song prompt provided on tumblr by [whomerlockwood](https://whomerlockwood.tumblr.com).
> 
>  
> 
> _oh don't you dare look back_  
>  _just keep your eyes on me_  
>  _i said you're holding back_  
>  _she said shut up and dance with me_
> 
> Vidfic available [here](https://curlupwithtinsnip.tumblr.com/post/176983731312/victims-of-the-night-a-ds9-fanfic-guten-tag). Read by yours truly, dahling~!

    “Don’t look back, Doctor.”

    The space is tight as they wriggle their way through water and rock and chunks of cement. The ruined factory is not a particularly pleasant place to be. It’s too dark (thank God for Garak’s eyes) and it’s too hot (at least for him) and it’s very, very close, which he’s quite certain Garak’s not enjoying at all.

     Garak’s coped admirably until now, though, until this moment when he’s angled himself backwards to look behind them and frozen, wide-eyed, pupils slipped to slits.

    “Why, what’s—” He starts to awkwardly turn himself in the small space—

    Garak grabs his wrist. Hard.

    “Don’t look back. Keep your eyes on me.”

    He’s going to have a bruise. He tries to tug away, can’t budge. “Garak! Let me go—”

    “Trust me and _don’t look back.”_

    This is a Cardassian tunnel... and Garak knows about what lives in Cardassian tunnels. Well, good for Garak— “What aren’t you telling—”

    “ _Listen_ , Doctor. Talk to me. Ah—you haven’t figured out Ciro’s motivation yet, have you.”

    And apparently Garak has chosen this particular moment to go insane. He pulls at Garak’s grip. “What... why are you—”

    “You _haven’t._ Lazy Federation intellectualism—” Anger in his voice—

    “I— I don’t—”

    Garak’s voice is a burning beam of light, blistering him. _“Don’t look back._ Listen only to me. Shut _up_ and _focus_ and _answer me!”_

    “I...”

    Contradictory demands from Garak? But Garak isn’t angry, is he, he’s _afraid,_ and Julian hears his own heart, beating, and the hiss of movement, and perhaps it’s just possible that he smells wrong, not like food, and Garak who probably does smell very _much_ like food is past him, and the only thing between whatever is behind him and Garak is _himself—_

    “...yes. Okay. Yes.”

    A quick nod from Garak, a brief loosening of the grip on his wrist—but Garak’s hand stays where it is, fingertips rasping-cool on his skin. Garak’s voice is slightly impatient, for all the world as if his tea is getting cold. “So. Ciro.”

    “Yes. Ciro. Okay.” He gulps. “Motivated by... self-preservation.”

    “Really.”

    “Um. Isn’t it always?”

    “Go on...”

    His eyes stay fixed on Garak’s, how they’re flickering between his face and just behind him, and he’s trying not to look at what might be reflected in them. He needs to keep making noise—is it noise? Not shouting, not screaming. _People_ noise, noise that worries whatever is making that reflection—

    “Um, Ciro... so his family is coming, and they’re going to find out. He’s got to do something. He’s got to complete the cycle, or else the hanging thread, the failure to complete _some_ kind of act will seal his fate in their eyes.”

    “Ah? Oh—hold still—”

    What’s moved? Something by his feet, there’s something _there_ —

    “ _I—”_

    “Keep talking. Hold still. _Keep talking.”_

    “Ah, yes, ah, and so it doesn’t matter what kind of act he commits, virtuous or otherwise, it’s the failure to have done anything at all that makes him the unvalued heir—you know, that’s funny, Humanity sometimes double-judges like that too, we say ‘oh well, make the moral choice, don’t get involved’, but that’s a choice too, isn’t it? Ah, and so perhaps he could bring that up, couldn’t he? Or wouldn’t that count as a choice?”

    “It wouldn’t be seen that way.” Garak’s talking a bit too quickly, looking past him. “Not in this setting. It would simply confirm to family and onlookers that Ciro is incapable of making a decision—or worse, careless of where the consequences could land. Inaction is not appropriate when the fates of others are so entwined. Remember ‘Hamlet’.”

    Even where they are, with rubble on his belly and a face full of grit and _something_ behind him, that rankles— _good! Go with it!_ — “You don’t need to tell _me_ about Hamlet, Garak. You know damned well I taught _you_ all about Hamlet.”

    Garak’s eyes widen for a moment, pleased—then flick away, back, away again. “A debate for another day. For now: Ciro?”

    Away, back, away— “Yes. Yes. So that’s why he goes ahead and hires the s’hUnjoTho. Even though he doesn’t want to. Even though he knows it’s the end of Gemara’s career. Gemara and her family will have to decide what to do about it, and pushing the decision over to them is good enough for now. Otherwise he has to take the fall himself. and that’s no good.”

    “But in the book he’s written as pleased to hire the s’hUnjoTho.”

    “Oh, certainly his second tongue is, but we never see inside his head. And, um, I...”

    Garak isn’t looking at him at all now. His breaths are slow and steady, his lips are pursed on each exhalation. He’s holding unnaturally still.

    He shouldn’t ask—

    “What are you looking at?”

    “Nothing of concern.” Garak’s voice rebukes him; his eyes are wide, his pupils narrow slits. “Keep talking to me. Prove me wrong, Doctor: Ciro’s quite pleased to dump the entire mess on Gemara. Now he’s vindicated in the eyes of his family. We never see anything to indicate otherwise.”

    “But what about her work?”

    Garak blinks, pupils dilating briefly, then narrowing again. “...go on...”

    “He destroys it all.”

    “Of course he does. She is shamed.” Dismissive—

    “No. No, _he’s_ ashamed.”

    “Really.”

    “Yes. And he can’t bear to see anything she started come to fruition. It would eat him alive.” He wants to shift, can’t, wants to gesture, can’t; Garak’s hand grips his wrist again, a warning.

    “You give Ciro more depth than I’d credit him with.”

    His voice is shaking but he has to keep talking. Anger seems the way to go. A good argument, defusing tension: “You never see _anyone_ as having _any_ kind of depth. Or motivation. You see everyone as either amoral or ruled by blind passion. Sometimes I think you can’t imagine a person who might have to deal with both.”

    “Excuse me—”

    “Excuse _me,_ I’m talking. You eviscerate Hamlet. You infantilize Elizabeth. You condescend to Brutha. And you take the side of the villain every time. And you know what? A lot of the villains you like so much are just as driven by blind stupid passion as you like to think the protagonists are!”

    “Doctor, I—”

    “And it really sells you short, you know. It makes it seem as if your imagination is limited. It can’t be. Surely you can envision someone who follows their passion _while_ being aware of the odds? Or is that just impossible on Cardassia? Or on whatever you seem to think Cardassia is?”

    Garak blinks at him.

     _Oh. Perhaps too much argument?_

    “I’m... I’m sorry, Garak, I didn’t mean to—”

    “No, doctor,” and Garak smiles. “Your points are valid. And by the way, they’re gone.”

    “What? I—”

    Despite himself, he turns and looks...

    Nothing in the shadows but the drip of water.

    Garak is still smiling at him, eyes strange and wild.

    “Well argued, Doctor. A well-stepped dance, and not a sign of fear.”

    “...we’re alive.”

    “We are.” Garak flicks his hands as if shaking out a cramp, angles his head from side to side to work out some kind of kink. “I must say, that was _invigorating.”_

    “...and not at all terrifying.” Relief almost makes him giggle; he manages to keep it to a hint of mania.

    “Not with such pleasant company. Now, I suggest we redouble our efforts to find a way out of here, before our charming audience returns for the second act.”

    Garak turns, drops to all fours again, continues crawling along the shaft; he blinks, bemused, and follows.

    


End file.
